We Are But Strangers
by Elysium66
Summary: Draco unravels the mystery of Hermione Granger's reading habits, and he is utterly enthralled. He knows he should be concentrating on the task at hand, but as he delves further into his new obsession, he finds time to think of little else.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

It was the perpetually present ink upon her fingers that fascinated him most. Through all the years he had known of her, she had maintained the same unique obliviousness to the world surrounding; and her nimble fingers, smeared as they so often were with the residue of hours upon hours of holding her quill aloft, in the face of untold histories, and unknown truths, were no exception.

The only kind of truths she sought were the ones held in books, and the kind that only a pure academic such as herself could truly appreciate.

He often wondered what it would feel like to have that unwavering and intent gaze rest upon him. A mixture of discomfiture and a disturbing sort of eagerness, he thought.

He never had experienced such a thing though; for it always slid right past him. He supposed she thought no one was watching in moments like those, when she was most open, most easily read.

And certainly not someone like himself.

He came upon her in the most obscure of places, and she was always reading: in the Astronomy tower, the Hogwarts Kitchens; and on one notable occasion, behind the statue of Aphrodite of Cnidus on the fifth floor.

He never went searching for her, certainly not at first; instead he always seemed to stumble upon her as he made his way to the seventh floor corridor.

He figured her out eventually though, but not without some difficulty.

There were two things that struck him every time he came upon her, hidden in alcoves as she so often was, with her hair clouding from behind whatever large volume rested against her knees. The first was utter perplexity at her choice of reading material; and the second, wonderment at her ability to be so consumed by Alberetti's Theorem for Applied Arithmancy that she was so completely unaware of his gaze upon her.

And though he found he could not answer the latter, the first riddle had been solved.

Each Friday night she would go to that place of dark and narrow aisles, of endless tomes and ancient scrolls, and borrow a book according to an absurd system she had established. She would start at the very first book alphabetised under the letter A, and upon finishing that she would move on to the first title in the B section. This cycle continued until she had read her way through each letter of the alphabet, and would start again with the next book along.

It was complicated. It was bizarre. And he was utterly fascinated.

The absurd nature of her reading habits perplexed him thus, not simply because she was presently reading the 14th title under her chosen section, which represented an absurd amount of reading for one person; but also because a good portion of the books she forced herself to read were unutterably tedious.

It had taken him the better part of two months of constant note taking to figure it out.

Had his father known, he would have undoubtedly been livid.

But Draco felt he needed this distraction more than he could say. It stopped him thinking about his predicament, the one from which there could be no escape.

It had started as a form of silent mockery and amusement for him. It wasn't like that now. It was something far more indiscernible. It was a morbid sort of fascination that ought to concern him more than it actually did.

He thought perhaps she was trying to escape from something too, though what, he could scarcely begin to fathom. For what other reason could she possibly have for the hours she spent reading in drafty corridors, rather than in her sumptuous and inviting common-room.

From whom was she hiding, and why?

It was not a question he should be asking, but he had scarcely known where he was, before he was in too deep. Yet there was one thing of which he was certain.

The time for observing was over. He was ready to become an active participant.


	2. Time Ticks Ever Slowly

**Time Ticks Ever Slowly**

There were sections of the library that did not glow with the warming light of gas-lit lamps in the hours beyond twilight; instead they relied on the narrow and dull shafts of light that filtered down the aisles. These sections were in the very back of the extensive space, and were the ones most infrequently occupied.

But not tonight. Tonight someone stood amongst their towering shelves, perusing the forgotten treasures found there. The boy did not light his wand in this case, as most others would have done, but peered closely at the titles. He did not wish to draw attention to his presence there.

It would have mattered little, for he was a faded beacon in the darkness. His skin, pale as it was, and his hair which shone silver, were ghostly in their hue.

Draco Malfoy was not a boy so easily unseen.

His fingers tapped the aged spines, smoothing dust from their titles as he made his selections. The bag slung casually over his shoulder bulged with the added weight of his finds, as he slinked out of the narrow aisle.

His first objective thus achieved, he headed into the main part of the library, and did a quick scan of the students scantly spread in the open space.

She was not there. He had time.

Rather than finding a seat amongst the many study desks located there, he turned instead toward the colossal maze of aisles which made up the main catalogue of books accessible to students. Light favoured this space.

He strolled through the towering shelves, inhaling the musky scent of books; the dusty residue of which clogged his nose. Somehow, he didn't seem to mind it.

It was silent in the vast space; excepting the hum of avid students muttering to themselves, and the sound of quills scratching across parchment, of thumbs turning pages. It was a steady and comforting harmony.

Draco glanced up at the shelves, and tapped his fingers across them just as he had the others. Only this time he was counting.

11...12...13...14

He slid the heavy volume from its snug position and snorted aloud as he glanced at the title: _Pacton's Approach to Bean Sprouting._

Merlin, he thought, would she actually _read_ this? He wondered whether she had ever actually cheated and skipped over the boring titles. He doubted it. She seemed far too honourable even for that.

It was a thought that irked him simply because he knew that he was not.

He tucked the volume under one arm, and used his fingers to push back the books that sat on either side of the now empty space. He wanted her to know the book was missing.

This done, he sauntered through the lengthy aisle, and wove his way through the desks at the front of the library where the perpetually harried Madame Pince was quelling errant students into submission with a well mastered glare.

Draco wondered, not for the first time, why she had ever taken a job which required such close a proximity to students, given her clear disdain for children.

He stopped at her work station and slid his book across the freshly polished dark-wood counter. One finger smoothed circles over the scarcely textured wood. It was the only mark of the anticipation he wished to conceal.

The older woman's pinched expression tightened further as she turned her beady gaze upon him.

'Herbology.' He said succinctly. It wasn't enough to cause her suspicion at his choice of reading material to subside. He couldn't even begin to ponder at the damage she envisioned him causing with such an aid.

As he carried his materials to an empty study desk near the entrance, he wished, not for the first time, that he were above suspicion.

It grew wearisome quickly, and he was beyond weary.

Stretching his legs beneath the desk, he ran a hand through the hair that brushed the nape of his neck. Knots bunched beneath the clear skin. Signs of his constant agitation were there, if people chose to look for them,

They never did though, and sometimes he wished that someone would.

The desk he had chosen, although not the ideal place to be perusing the materials he presently had hidden in his bag, afforded him the most advantageous view of the library, one not shared in the darkest corners of the room.

Draco glanced about the room as he pulled two small books from his shoulder-bag and placed them on the desk before him, but opened instead the large volume acquired for 'herbology'.

The scarcity of people there on a Friday night was not of much surprise. Most would be lounging around their commonroom fires, playing games of Wizard Chess or staring vacantly into its burning embers. Or perhaps that was just him.

He glanced at the large antique clock which took precedence over one of the archways. Instantly he wished he hadn't. Dinner had finished an hour prior, and still she had not come.

He shouldn't have been thinking about that. He should have been reading up on strong repairing charms like he had intended. Like he was supposed to.

He carded fingers through the length of his white-blond hair before pulling out a few sheets of parchment, a quill and a pot of ink. Though he had come here with the prospect of amusement at _her_ expense, he still had much more important things to worry about.

Yet he could not help but note that she was later than usual, though he knew that she would come. She always did, and she was nothing if not a creature of habit.

It was more than likely that she had been held back in conversation with Potter and Weasley. One could not but help to be enthralled by their undoubtedly witty repartee, he mused.

He looked at the clock again, and could have sworn the brass hands had not moved. He willed them to tick over faster. They didn't though. Time moved slowly just to taunt him, he was sure.

And no matter his efforts, he could not hope to immerse himself in the wonder that was bean-planting. Giving up all futile attempts, he closed the book and focused instead on one of the others.

He had made a full sheet of notes by the time he heard the creak of aged doors pushing open. It was her, sweeping into the room with a hurried sort of purposefulness bred of someone knowing where they were headed.

By the time she had passed his desk her gait had slowed and calmed, he could see the way this place soothed her just by being in it. And he couldn't help but wonder if he was the only one who noticed. He hoped fervently that he was.

Everything about Hermione Granger reeked of a desperate urge to prove her worth to others, to prove her right to be amongst these learned writings.

He knew this because he watched her more frequently than he should. He saw the softening of her expression when she thought she was alone, the relief, and the joy at being here. Most others didn't share that feeling, muggleborn or otherwise, and he had attributed it to her strange character.

Her hair was pulled back from her face in a long and shiny plait that rendered her almost unrecognisable. But not completely. He thought he would know the sharp intelligence of her eyes anywhere.

She looked remarkably pleased with herself over something, and it soothed him immensely to know how that would soon change.

Some might have called his games juvenile, and he supposed they were, but they were merely a distraction in the face of the very real truth of his situation.

It scared him sometimes to think how easily he became unfocused on his task. The weight of the possible repercussions would nestle upon his shoulders and stain his very being the moment he left this vast removed space.

He supposed he needed her in some small way, not in the literal sense, but in the diversion she provided. It was the only time when he felt himself again. And he yearned for those moments with every part of his being.

Granger didn't as much as glance at him as she passed though. Not that he minded. He would have her attention soon enough.

Mere moments later, she hurried back toward the front of the room, halting at Madam Pince's desk, a frazzled expression alighting her features.

She spoke in hushed tones that he could not discern, but he understood perfectly the direction of their conversation when both heads turned to face him. He almost grinned in triumph as her gaze fell steady and unwavering upon him.

It did strange things to his insides to feel her so intently watching him. It shouldn't though. He should not care in the slightest, he should feel only disgust. And quite without knowing how or why or when, he found he did. Entirely too much.

Draco lowered his gaze from hers to skim across the mind-numbing lines of prose upon the page before him. He did not look up again until he was certain she had looked away.

He craved to see her reaction, to know what she would do. Any normal person would have simply moved on to the next book along. But she was in no way normal, which was precisely what fascinated him in the first place.

His attention was suddenly called away from the parchment before him when a heavy thud resounded in the near empty space. She had dropped a large tome on a desk two up from his own. He knew it was to catch his attention, and though he relished being the cause of such aggravation to her, he could not help but wonder at her directness.

The title of the book was obscured from his vision though. It did not matter in any case as she was not reading it. She was staring at him instead. It was a deeply inquisitive expression, one that plainly showed the disturbance of her thoughts across her face.

In fact so absorbed was she that she appeared to be wholly unaware that he was staring back. When she did notice, her cheeks flushed as he had never seen them do, and he glanced away quickly.

Choosing to ignore her now, he returned to his notes, allowing his quill to dance quickly across the page. Draco had almost managed to forget about her sitting there when he heard a cough sound to his left.

He glanced up to see her standing by his desk, her face reflected her feelings: a mixture of discomfort, irritation, and her usual streak of gritty determination. And he knew instantly that she had braced herself for a confrontation of some sort.

He didn't know whether to be pleased or oddly disappointed.

Instead he raised a brow in question. He could see that she was itching to fight with him, most likely still running off the remnants of a disagreement with her friends from earlier.

And she just assumed that he was in the wrong enough for her to tell him off. He would admit that in many cases this was true, but not in this. And he would not give her the satisfaction of rising to her bait as easily as his 13 year old self would have done.

He had gained enough circumspection in the last year to have mastered that at the very least.

She almost looked disconcerted at his not having addressed her in his usual insulting manner. Perhaps she hadn't stopped to think that he had not addressed her in any respect, insulting or otherwise, in a very long time.

'I need that book,' she said rather baldly.

He feigned ignorance and glanced down. 'I'm reading it,' he said blandly and went back to his writing. He could almost feel the air being sucked out of the room as she huffed in silent indignation.

'I _meant_ this one,' she muttered in exasperation as her hand reached for the book in question. More quickly than hers, his hand snapped over the pile and slid it out of her reach.

'But you aren't even using it!'

'I will be.' He sneered at her for a long moment before she stalked out of the library, pausing only to give him one last disconcerted glance.

Though not nearly as he had anticipated, he found the exchange oddly thrilling.


	3. One Should Never Tell

**One Should Never Tell**

A solitary echo of footsteps sounded off the grey stone walls that led to the heart of the castle. The boy to whom they belonged held a steady gait as he passed through the increasingly confined space. He showed a level of comfort here, bred only from having spent much time in the dark and dank environs.

The boy paused hesitantly at one of the iron-braced, wooden doors. He was waiting for something, though nothing came. Moments passed and the marks of sullen impatience marred his pale features.

After many more moments of silence, the boy pushed against the aged door and ambled into the room beyond.

The dungeons had never been a particularly comfortable place within the castle walls, but the change in their Master since previous years had wrought _some_ improvements.

Professor Slughorn was not known to suffer discomfort unduly.

Though little natural light spilled into this deep part of the building, large gas-lit lamps imbued the cold stone walls with a warmth and light to which they were unaccustomed.

It was possibly the only aspect of being a Slytherin that Draco Malfoy had never appreciated. Draco too did not feel the need to endure discomfort when it was unnecessary. It was for this reason that he experienced a recurring sense of gratitude as he entered the Potions lab, in spite of the mild resentment he felt towards the Professor.

His angst about the rotund Slughorn was in part a result of the man's constant lauding of Potter's heretofore unknown potion-making skills, in addition to Draco's indignation at the cool and abrupt manner in which he, himself, was treated.

Such changes as these were not the sort most easily adapted to by the youngest Malfoy.

The soft tick that echoed within the stone room called his attention to the small, brass clock which rested upon the Professor's desk; it told Draco that there were still a few spare moments before the double potions class was to begin. He was early. In fact, he was so early that he was the first to class again. Draco did not mind this fact; he rather liked to prepare himself in solitude when he had the chance.

His lithe form strolled to a desk at the back of the room, as was his custom, and he placed a large leather book-bag on the table in question. He sank his form onto the uncomfortable stool, taking much gratitude in the opportunity to relax, even if it was only for a moment or two, and began sorting his required tools for the class.

Draco had always had a particular aptitude for potions, something which had previously been encouraged by his Head of House, former Potions Master, Severus Snape. However, as a result of many contributing factors, Draco had noted a significant decline in his ability to concentrate on his studies and, hence, perform to his normally high standards.

If he was completely honest, there were a few other reasons as well. The primary one was the conspicuous absence of his housemates, with their constantly watchful eyes. It was really the only opportunity he had to tune out his surroundings, without the steadily streaming questions of feigned concern from people he knew did not really care at all.

It was also the only class he had with _her_, and truth be told he was looking forward to this particular lesson with relish.

Instinct would have ordinarily caused his movements to still, his spine to stiffen, when he heard the aged wooden door creak open to admit the first of his classmates. He had become quite good at overpowering that instinct to react though, doing so told far too much of the truth of his thoughts than he was inclined to share. Instead, he remained slouched and apparently unaware of the bustle around him.

He was not though. He paid much attention.

The first through the door had been his pompous, over-indulged professor whose small hands pressed and rubbed at the plum, velvet smoking-vest that represented his usual attire. The brass buttons that adorned the right side, and which were presently fastened across the vast stretch of his stomach, appeared almost ready to give out from the visible strain.

He was followed shortly by his equal in pomposity, Ernie MacMillan, who had taken to sitting with _her_ in class of late. This was most likely because Hermione Granger, who they all knew to be so clever, was joined in this class by her infinitely less intelligent friends: Potter and Weasley, who could hardly write their own names without conferring with the other. The latter two were always partnered in this class, leaving their friend to the no doubt less than thrilling company of the Hufflepuffian.

More footsteps sounded, signalling the entrance of three Ravenclaw students whose names Draco had never taken the time to learn. Now they were only waiting for Potter and Weasley and her.

She came first; he heard her laugh and it sounded soft and tinkly, then controlled. She was laughing at something Weasley had said, and had clearly not intended to. She would reprimand him next, he knew. The thought brought an anticipatory curve to his lips and he ran long, pale fingers across the spine of his onyx quill in the appearance of distraction.

Draco watched as they entered. Her cheeks were still slightly pink from having been outside in the chill air, for what he could not imagine, and her quick eyes were bright. She did not look at him quizzically when she passed, in the way he had visualised. She had not looked intrigued or annoyed either.

In fact, she had not looked at him at all, not even with the most fleeting of glances.

Draco felt his jaw clench in reaction, and his gaze narrowed at the back of her head, wild as it was with the untameable mass of her curls. Despite attempts to the contrary, he could not deny his infuriation at the snub and nor could he determine its meaning. Was she deliberately ignoring him, or was she genuinely unfazed by his presence?

He could hardly decide which was worse. The only point of which he was completely certain was that he had not finished toying with her, had barely even started and was thus determined that next time would be different.

Next time she would notice.

Slughorn's voice rose and fell around him, but Draco found that despite his best efforts, he could not grasp the words completely. He cursed softly as his fingers slipped and lost their grip on the small paring knife he was using to prepare the sprig of lovage needed to create the potion which the class had been instructed to brew.

The herb was shredded unevenly and with a quick glance he noted that he had not juiced the alihotsy leaves to produce the required amount of fluid. His potion would never be right at this rate, but with such little time and inclination, he found there was very little he could do to remedy the situation at such a late stage.

Steam issued in swirling puffs from his cauldron, which caused his hair to slick against his forehead. He pushed the fair locks from his eyes and blew out a frustrated sigh.

Draco lifted his head to gaze around at his fellow students efforts in the hopes that there were less ideal results than his own amidst the class. Weasley, in typical fashion, appeared to be gagging from the noxious fumes of his effort, and he noted with satisfaction, the look of bemusement upon Slughorn's face as he assessed the contents from a safe distance.

His gaze shifted to pause on the girl behind the useless redhead and he saw that she appeared almost, if not more, frustrated than him, and was in fact shooting rather malevolent looks at Potter.

To say that he was intrigued by the intent behind the look would be an understatement in the extreme. Whatever its cause, Draco felt a slight ease siphoning down his spine at the sight of her discomfiture.

In the face of the very large concerns in his life at that point, petty things may have seemed a ridiculous thing to draw comfort from, but draw comfort he certainly did. Grudges reminded him of the normalcy of previous years and how greatly he had not appreciated them.

It was on this heavy note that his thoughts were interrupted as their professor called an end to the class, and issued them with homework. Draco gathered his effects and made to leave the small confines of the dungeons with as much haste as would be deemed acceptable.

Weak light filtered through the high panes of the castle windows as he made his way through the winding corridors that led to the main hall. It was in this direction that he was headed when a minute figure obstructed his view.

"Dr-Draco Malfoy?" It was a small boy. A first year, clearly, and Slytherin too, which explained how he knew him. Draco raised a brow in question and the boy thrust a scroll of parchment into his hand. "It's from Professor Snape, he wants to see you."

Draco swore under his breath, loudly enough to cause the heads of nearby students to turn in his direction. It was quite the last thing he had wanted to hear and his mind was in a whirl as he turned back in the direction from whence he had come.

He saw _her_ standing there, watching him with a blandly curious glint in her eye. Draco, impatient and agitated, scowled at her before pushing through the gathering crowd of hungry students. This time he did not care that she was watching, was not worried at what she thought.

His impending conversation with Snape was the sole thought occupying his mind.

* * *

His pale knuckles rasped across the roughly hewn wood of Professor Snape's new study. A voice from within the walls bid him to come in, and yet Draco felt sure there had never been a tone less inviting.

He pushed against the door frame and listened for the usual creak, but there was none. It was easy to forget the change in the professor's circumstance. This office was not at all like the man's previous place of residence, and Draco could not help but wonder whether its new owner appreciated the change. He doubted it.

A degree of sumptuousness at odds with Severus Snape's typically cool demeanour greeted him as he stepped across the threshold. The room was all books and trinkets and glowing light. Draco glanced toward its king with a look of ill-concealed derision.

The mocking gesture was duly ignored, as he had known it would be. Snape, though indulgent as he had been in previous years, was a different quantity altogether now. He could be a problem for Draco. And if there was one thing the boy did not need, it was another problem.

The older man gestured to a rather plush looking seat across from the large, antique desk behind which he was perched.

"Professor," he said by way of greeting. He continued glancing about the room with a deliberation bred from knowledge of the outcome of holding eye contact with the dark-haired man before him. Bellatrix had equipped him with more than Occlumency lessons over the summer. She had warned him of his former professor's inclination to interfere.

Unfortunately for Draco, however, avoiding his Head of House had proven far more difficult than he had hoped, though his efforts to the contrary had been quite valiant.

"Draco, I presume you are aware of the reason I requested your company. Or have my most recent owls gone awry as well?"

The blond haired boy felt a hint of his old smugness cause a smirk to pull at the corner of his mouth. It was _also_ very unfortunate that Severus Snape knew him quite so well.

"Actually, Professor, I can't begin to imagine to what I owe the pleasure." Draco's tone was coolly impassive, as was his expression. Severus Snape was watching him with dark eyes that missed nothing. There must be nothing _to_ miss. It was the only way to navigate the conversation with any degree of success.

The older man sighed and spoke with a resigned sort of tone to which Draco was not accustomed to hearing. "Draco, this is no game you are playing. I _know_ what it is you are doing. Moreover, I know that it will not work. Surely you realise this also?"

Something like fear clutched at his insides and he responded on the offensive. "Then you know I _won't_ talk about it!"

"Draco! Listen to me; this is a fool's path. You _need_ to confide in me - I can help you." Snape leaned in close now, almost conspiratorially and Draco felt his fists clenching in restraint. It would all be so very easy to palm it off to someone older, wiser.

He could not do that though. No one could help him with this. No one.

He leaned in close and sneered with all the resentment he could muster and spat, "I don't need your help. I don't need anyone's help."

He pushed back and the scrape of wood against the floor jarred his already rattled senses. He stalked from the room, slamming the door but feeling no relief from the burgeoning turmoil within.

His palms itched as he wandered in steady pace, yet without direction, among the castle halls. Draco could feel his composure cracking as it had not done before, and he wanted so very much to pass his lot to someone else. Anyone else.

It was not until his knees collapsed beneath him, causing his weight to sag against chilled tiles that he realised where he had stopped. And when the curious voice asked him who he was and what he wanted, he did not yell or sneer as he might normally have done.

Instead he let his face fall into his open palms, allowed his shaking form to dissolve before the watching girl. She was only a ghost after all. What would it matter if she saw him weak, just this once?

It would come to matter far more than he could possibly have known.


	4. A Curious Pursuit of Knowledge

_A/N: I know it's taken ages to get this update, but rest assured that is because I've spent all my time writing ahead and finishing the chapter outline which will result in speedier updates._

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**A Curious Pursuit of Knowledge**

The sky was grey and murky as the weak afternoon sunlight succumbed to the pull of dusky evening. No rain had fallen but the threat lingered thick and moist in the air. The sound of chirping birds and the ruffling and flapping of wings was almost melodious. They were the sounds that stopped the silence which seemed to roar perpetually in his head.

There were some less than pleasant elements to be endured when one spent their time amid the columned structure of the Owlery: the smell, most notably. It was the cloying odour of sweetened owl treats combined with straw and excrement. No amount of the cleansing air that rushed in from the open walls of the towered room could seem to relieve it. This was a necessary evil to be endured when one wanted easy access to an indistinguishable school owl.

Draco Malfoy, the only occupant of the vast space, had a beautiful eagle owl, which had been gifted to him by his mother when he first arrived on the hallowed grounds of Hogwarts. It was a magnificent creature, but one that was far too easily identifiable as his own. Although Draco's correspondence with his mother was relatively innocuous, he and his family drew suspicion with their every breath. And if Harry Potter was still spouting off said suspicions to Dumbledore and his many other allies, then there was all the more reason for Draco to be discreet.

The tall, pale-haired boy stroked the underbelly of his selected courier, and the diminutive creature ruffled his feathers and hooted in response. After a small missive was attached to his outstretched leg, the owl flew off toward Wiltshire. Its intended recipient was one Narcissa Malfoy, matriarch of the Manor. Draco knew, however, that she was no longer mistress of those walls. There was a guest at the estate: one who had taken control of all the goings on there.

The letter sent was a response to one he had received only that morning. It was one of the many concerned inquiries that had accumulated since he arrived back at the school for his turbulent sixth year. He leaned against a free wall as his hands instinctively slipped between the folds of his robes to extricate the letter. The sheaf of parchment was well worn already from multiple readings.

It was in times like these when he wished that the ability to put all on his parents was still possible. There were many reasons for why it simply was not. Not least of all was the fact that his father had been imprisoned in Azkaban for the entire duration of the summer. Draco did not like to think about that, for reasons more than just pride. As a result, however, the Dark Lord had deemed it appropriate for Draco to move into service in the wake of his father's absence. This was the primary reason for his mother's horror, and despite Draco's pretence of swagger about the induction, his feelings were quite the reverse.

Still, in spite of his situation and his awareness of Narcissa's, he drew comfort in her words. They were a reminder of what he strived for, and cleared his priorities for a time. Her letters were increasingly concerned because she knew what it had taken him some time to acknowledge: that the Dark Lord had not expected for Draco to be successful. The mission was nothing more than a punishment for the errors and failures of his father's own service to him. It also stood as a warning to other Death Eaters that even the illustrious Malfoys could be held in low esteem. No one was safe within the ranks.

His mother was resilient, in spite of the slightness of her frame and her polished demeanour, but he still did not like to think of her and the peril that would come of another Malfoy failure. Draco's stroke of genius with regard to the Vanishing Cabinets was fast becoming outweighed by the realisation of the near impossibility of the task. But the veiled threat should he fail was one he could not bear. The weight of his family hung around his throat like a noose, tightening each day. His home was now a place to be feared, and that fear of _him_ burnt through the black ink on his skin and seared Draco to his core.

He did not relish the prospect of returning to his family home come Christmas. Whatever stresses he faced within the grounds of the school, they were preferable to what lay beyond. From _that_ there would be no escape.

His gaze scanned the signature from his mother before he stuffed the parchment back into his pocket. He turned then and gazed out at the gloomy sky, which hung over the lush landscape. He would have liked to fly then, to feel the rush of air against his face, and the comforting texture of wood beneath his fingers.

He had no time for such frivolities, though.

The pale boy squared his shoulders and made to leave the Owlery. He paused at the sound of a creak nearby. The loud plodding of footsteps would not have worried him, just an errant student writing home. No. It was the quietness that disconcerted him. He wondered whether Potter was watching him again from beneath his favoured cloak.

Draco was startled into reaction when he felt a finger tapping his shoulder. Turning swiftly, Draco wrenched a wrist toward him, one that was too fine to be Potter's. He was startled at the flash of wide ochre eyes and wild curls which greeted him. It was _her._ He narrowed his eyes, wondering immediately if she was now in cahoots with her friend.

"What?" he hissed rather viciously, to which she responded in shock. She yanked her wrist from his grasp, and with her other hand held up a carefully folded piece of parchment.

"I was just checking whether you dropped this." It was his mother's letter. Draco swallowed, nodding curtly at her before taking the missive and putting it in his pocket with more care on this occasion. She was rubbing her wrist and he watched the motion for a few seconds before turning on his heel.

He cursed himself for his rash behaviour; the last thing he needed was to make her suspicious in the way Potter was. The soft texture of her skin beneath his was a revelation he should not dwell on. It also disturbed him to know that her touch, something he had always feared, had not caused him physical harm – though, perhaps something more perilous altogether.

He increased his pace.

Once distance had wrought a calmer frame of mind, he relaxed to know that it was not entirely unreasonable for her to be there. After all, he had seen her earlier that day, as he made his own way to the tower. It was the first time in some weeks that he had stumbled upon her on one of her reading sessions. It was in one of the unused classrooms in the West Tower. Draco found it strange that even in cases such as this, when he was _not_ in search of her, he still seemed to cross her path.

He had walked right past the room at first, before the soft sounds of turning pages caught his attention. And there she was, curled up by the far window, allowing the light to fall across the pages of a small, much worn book that was held tenderly between her fingers. To say that he had been intrigued would be an understatement. It made him wonder, with a ferocious sort of curiosity, what it was that she read, for he knew quite clearly what it was not. Only the previous Friday had he guaranteed another disruption to the flow of her reading habits.

He had arrived very early that evening to peruse the shelves in search of her desired volume. He had elected on that occasion to hide the book instead of borrowing it. Whilst he had derived great pleasure from her _knowing_ he had what she wanted the time before, he also did not want to give the game away quite so quickly. So, employing his inherent deviousness, Draco hid the book in an entirely different section, and applied a clever sticking charm to its well preserved covers. That would ensure that even the most well wielded summoning charm could not disturb it.

There was, of course, the additional thrill of knowing just how Mrs Pince would fret over the mistreatment of such a valuable item. The memory caused Draco a rare smile. In any case, he had elected to sit and work on his Transfiguration homework, or at least to pretend to, while he waited for everything to unfold. As predicted, Granger and her ally had looked quite flummoxed over the missing book, and the former had even cast a curious look toward him. He feigned ignorance but had revelled in the moment.

The knowledge that he had again caused her the inconvenience was the main reason for Draco's curiosity when he had stood outside the classroom door watching her. When she eventually did tilt the book at such an angle to reveal its cover, it became clear that whatever its content, it was for Muggles. Draco could not fathom the knowledge she intended to derive from such a book, and it was a riddle he had yet to solve.

He wanted to, though. Muggle or not. His yearning to know the truth of her, each flittering thought which danced across her mind, was ever increasing.

* * *

No matter how many enchanted candles lit the dungeon common room, nor how close one sat to the vast hearth, could the all pervasive draftiness be dispelled. One grew accustomed to wearing as many layers as possible when that someone was a Slytherin.

Draco was seated on one of the long sofas situated near the crackling flames. He was surrounded by some of the other sixth year students, who had been apprising him of the castle gossip. His inattentiveness of late had not gone unnoticed. This was perceived as strange behaviour from him, given his general predisposition toward the mocking of others.

Pansy had chastised him for ignoring her, a crime of which he knew he was quite guilty. She was seated right next to him, leaning close and trailing her fingers across the downy skin of his neck. She had always been fascinated by his hair, and it was not uncommon to find her playing with its silken ends. He did not mind this so much. In fact, he found it somewhat soothing.

Draco had always been a rather tactile creature; one who relished physical comfort in whatever form it was presented.

Although he tried, with particular effort on this occasion, to appear intrigued by the flow of conversation, the constant pull of darker thoughts lingered at the frayed edges of his mind. Indeed, his interest was not called away from those worrying thoughts until a name was uttered, one that he could not help but focus on.

"-huge argument, apparently. Hannah Abbot – you know that dreadfully loud Hufflepuff girl... the one with the voice? Well, anyway, I overheard her talking about how Granger and Weasley were fighting in Herbology and-"

Draco swiftly interrupted the streaming flow that fell from Pansy's lips.

"Abbot is an imbecile... surely not a reliable source..."

She rushed on. "Oh, I know that, Draco... but she was talking to one of the other girls and... Well, anyway _apparently_ Granger was _crying!_" The flush which usually came over Pansy's face at the misfortune of someone she greatly detested was unfurling across her cheeks.

"Whatever about?" Queried an only slightly interested Blaise Zabini.

"Well," she said, "apparently it was about that Christmas party for Professor Slughorn's little club." Her tone was intentionally derisive, and out of the corner of his eye Draco saw the quick glance she shot his way. She was loyal, even if only to him and very few others. He appreciated it nonetheless.

He craved, most fervently, to know whether it was true. He could think of no reason why someone as complex and intricate as Granger would care about anything that Weasley had to say, or perhaps _didn't_ say. He felt no sympathy for her, of course, just a curious resentment that it was someone other than himself to cause that visceral reaction.

He wanted to be the one to cause a flush to creep across her features, salt tears to track her cheeks. According to the black ink which marred his skin, it was perfectly natural to wish pain upon someone like her: someone apparently so inferior. But it wasn't so much the knowledge of her being hurt that he craved, it was the heady thought of yielding that sort of emotional power over her.

She had only ever been collected around him, full of disdain at him and all he represented. And he wanted nothing more than the knowledge that he could, if he chose, hurt her deeply and irrevocably.

That desire thrummed through his veins when he thought of her. It terrified him.

"So, given that we've digressed to talking of _little clubs_, I wonder..." Blaise Zabini's coolly laconic voice interrupted the flow of Draco's thoughts once more. "How goes your _vital _mission? Has the Dark lord built a statue in your honour?"

The taunting tone was unsurprising. Draco had never really liked the other boy; he was too quiet, always assessing. One never really knew what he was thinking or where his loyalties lay. This, Draco knew, was a dangerous quality in a Slytherin because of their inherently devious nature. His mother's tendency for choosing husbands that died shortly after the wedding made Draco all the more weary of the boy.

He responded with a dismissive tone. "I rather think that is between the Dark Lord and his trusted… of which you are not one, Zabini." He sneered in response but the other boy ignored the rebuff, seeming to sense that he had struck a nerve.

He turned away at the gentle stroke of Pansy's fingertips across the nape of his neck.

"Draco," she whispered softly for only him to hear. "I want to talk…"

"Now?" he questioned in a harsh response, immediately regretting the tone when he saw the pull at her features. He could not afford to alienate all around him. So he sat up, lifting his form from the comforting embrace of the sofa, and extended an arm toward her. She smiled, appeased, and took his arm, leading him toward the sixth form boy's dormitory where she knew they would not be disturbed.

He blew out a weary puff of air, which tickled the errant strands of pale blond about his forehead. Pansy immediately sat on his bed, and turned her clear gaze up toward him. He sat down next to her, and did not shift when her small palm collected his, brushing circles over its surface.

Above all else and in spite of much, Pansy was his friend and he had known her for much of his life. He did not think he could clearly define that friendship, because she was a girl and that always meant the lines blurred just a little. This was increased by the times when he had kissed her at his family's estate, and when she had allowed him to brush curious fingers beneath the folds of her skirt.

In spite of these things, she was his friend and one that he counted as important, among many he did not. She knew him well; it was a blessing and a curse.

"You're not yourself, Draco," she whispered finally. "I know you won't tell me all about it - that you can't… but I want to know that you're alright."

She shrugged and he could see the sheen across her eyes that suggested she was more worried than she admitted. It made him wonder just how obvious his manner was. Pansy could read him far better than most, but if she was as worried as this then perhaps that explained Potter's tenacity and Granger's strangely inquisitive looks.

He could not allow for that. He had to be strong. His father would tell him to push his shoulders back and hide his thoughts. And this had never been a problem, because Draco had always excelled at compartmentalising. Until now.

"I know," he said to her. "I know I haven't been all there… but it's better now. It will be better now."

She brushed her fingers through his hair and when her wet cheeks slid across his own, and her soft lips clung to his mouth, he tried to convince himself that it was true.


End file.
